Farewell, Mr Groovy
by JaganshiKenshin
Summary: A relentless rain, a dead TV star, and an unexpected request add up to one of Hiei's more unusual missions-but is he stalking a killer, or is a killer stalking him?
1. In The Belly of the Whale

Disclaimer: Kenshin does not own the Yuu Yuu Hakusho characters (they are the property of Togashi Yoshihiro et al), and does not make any money from said characters.

What Kenshin **does** own, however, are all the original characters in this work. Any attempt to "borrow" these characters will be met with the katana, or worse.

The events in _Idiot Beloved_ take place shortly after the Dark Tournament; _Firebird Sweet_ directly follows that timeline. For reference, I use a combination of the subtitled YYH anime and the American manga, plus some of the CD dramas.

The mysterious Agency is first introduced in _Operation Rosary._ _Farewell,Mr. Groovy_ occurs during the long timeline of _The Book of Cat With Moon_-just after _Trade Secret_ and just before we are about to meet Kitajima Maya in _Maya's Tale._ Is it a murder mystery? A character study? Both? Neither? All we know is that it was inspired by a license plate, and an offhand comment from our favorite reader.

Title: Farewell, Mr. Groovy (C1:In The Belly of the Whale)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor

Rating: K+/PG-13

Summary: Hiei is called to the Agency's Tokyo office-again. But this time, there are no horses, no monsters, no exploding multidimensional contraptions, only an unusual request.

A/N: As always, I appreciate your reviews!

Laughing on the outside, crying on the inside?

Farewell, Mr. Groovy (1: In The Belly of the Whale)

by

Kenshin

Mr. Groovy was dead. Of that, Hiei was certain.

What was unclear: "What's this got to do with me?"

Hiei sat opposite Narita Shun, the vast expanse of Shun's executive-issue desk between them.

"Nothing," conceded N.

In the big window just over N's shoulder, worms of rain crawled mindlessly. Maybe the Tokyo Bureau chief spent his days staring out that window. Just not today.

Ceaseless, relentless rain may have been on tap this October morning, but N had turned his back on it. Hiei forced himself to look away as well. "Didn't that guy kill himself? And he's been dead, what, a month now? Why's this even of interest? Was Mr. Groovy suspected of espionage?"

"No." N swiveled his chair to glance at the rain, then back at Hiei. "And you're right. It has nothing to do with you. Which is precisely why I don't expect you to take the case."

Hiei lifted a disdainful lip. "Don't try to play me."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

The Mr. Groovy dossier lay on the desk in a plain, business-sized manila envelope. "Didn't that guy leave a suicide note?"

"He did," N confirmed. "D & D: destitute and depressed."

Hiei shifted in the armchair. N may have had that harmless demeanor, but he had been a top field agent in his day, steel-tough and gritty. You underestimated him to your peril.

And N was something of an enigma to Hiei. It wasn't merely a factor of N's usual self-control, but also that the qualities needed to become a top field agent, and those needed to be a top manager of said agents, are not often found in the same man.

Agents have to blend in and take orders, to be the hands and feet and eyes of the Agency; managers have to give orders and swallow the consequences.

If being a good agent meant blending in physically, N had that part down. A middle-aged man with benevolent-uncle features and a roundish build, he wore a charcoal pinstripe suit and burgundy pin-dotted tie. Under his cover as the head of Yoshikawa Industries, N could be any of a dozen executives you pass in the street without a second glance.

Hiei, with his black-flame hair, combat-toughened build and insolent crimson stare, was not designed to blend in. And as for his 'cover,' that was a joke.

He was in show business.

Hiei supposed that meant he was a bad agent. But he didn't like to lose, and that counted in his favor.

N glanced at the envelope. "At least hear me out."

Since the true occupation of 'Yoshikawa Industries' was not electronics but rather espionage, Hiei had to admit to a grudging curiosity. If Mr. Groovy was not suspected of spying, why go after a dead man?

Coughing, N began to shuffle papers on his desk. N was not the sort to shuffle papers. "Certain people... in the know... claim that suicide was impossible." He stopped, and looked meaningfully at the silver-framed photo on the corner of his desk: Mrs. N, elegant and ladylike, and their three boys, who were probably going to run the Agency some day.

"Your _wife's_ a fan?" By and large, women hated Mr. Groovy.

"Just pay this little request no heed." N made a shooing motion with one hand. "You can be on your way. At least I can say I tried."

"I'm free this week." In a blur of movement, almost before he could stop himself, Hiei scooped up the dossier.

The manila envelope itself was quite ordinary. Nothing was written on it, and its featherlike weight barely registered in his hand.

"We'll pay you. Just this once."

Ordinarily the Agency only covered expenses. An odd ripple, part surprise, part caution, swept across the back of Hiei's neck. Was the timing of this job just a little too convenient?

Nevertheless, tucking the envelope into his coat, Hiei left the office. But as he waited for the elevator, N caught up with him.

"I'll go down with you," N said.

That, too, was a first.

The door slid open. They got in, and N pressed the lobby button. "You forgot your money," N explained.

"How could I forget what I don't have?"

N stared at the elevator floor. "Ahhh... just for the record..."

"You're the fan," finished Hiei.

"And it's not strictly an Agency matter."

"I suppose you're about to tell me why."

"Mr. Groovy had such joie de vivre!" N burst out. "He was too happy to even consider such a thing! He was-"

"Crying on the inside, evidently."

"I have a hard time believing that."

"No, it's the way of the world," said Hiei. "Take me. Inside, I'm just a barrel of laughs." But as the words left his lips, Hiei realized that, by way of a jest, he had spoken a profound truth.

He wasn't merely referring to his stoic exterior, though he was stoic by nature. But his terse replies, calm demeanor, and economy of movement were almost a role he could don as easily as one of the characters he played for radio or television.

He was not a barrel of laughs inside. He had been in a restless mood, the equivalent of ants crawling under his skin.

Why?

The Batman wasn't lurking around any corners. There wasn't a horse in the elevator with them. No one had tried to kill him all week.

Hiei's discontent had nothing to do with today's events. Being summoned to the Agency office was commonplace. N would call him in on an assignment, which he would automatically refuse, but then relent to take the job. Business as usual; move along, nothing to see.

Shayla Kidd, his Firebird, was in good spirits, singing at a nightclub. Their twins, Michael and Cecilia, were doing well in school, and in excellent health.

So why-?

Though Hiei was now at liberty, he was scheduled for work later that month: a voice-over for an industrial film, the sort of job which was always easy and always paid magnificently.

In fact he had more than one gig upcoming, including the stage production of _Kitsune no Zorro_, scheduled to start rehearsal after the first of the year. He did not, at the moment, want for money, unlike earlier lean times.

Why this-?

His friends were doing well. Kaitou Yuu was multi-tracking as a newspaper editor, publisher, and writer; Kurama was also multi-tracking as a student and medical assistant. Urameshi Yuusuke was neither in jail nor in the hospital. Even the idiot was advancing in school.

No. This mood had been building for a while. And Hiei could not put his finger on the cause.

Was there some arcane connection between himself and the outlandish, deceased TV star known as Mr. Groovy?

Maybe it was the weather. This rain could get to anyone.

N was saying something:

"Call it a hunch if you like. Even Bureau chiefs are allowed to have them."

"You learn something every day."

"Let me put this on plain terms." N slid a hand in his jacket, plucked out a similar manila envelope. But this one was fat with cash. "I'm hiring you as a private investigator."

"Unofficial? Can't work any of the conventional angles, then. Can't investigate the scene of the crime, or interview the last known contact."

"I know. If you can't turn up something in a week, I will still consider this money well spent."

"A week?" The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. Hiei pocketed the money. "I'll have it by the end of this day."

But as he strolled from the elevator into the ozone-scented street, Hiel felt far less confident than he sounded.

(To be continued: A dockside dive and an old acquaintance may hold some answers)

-30-


	2. I Cover The Waterfront

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Farewell, Mr. Groovy (C2: I Cover the Waterfront)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: Action/Adventure, Humor

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: Hiei can't understand why EVERYBODY didn't kill Mr. Groovy.

A/N: Those who are curious as to how the 'Flying Shadow' ended up in show biz might want to read _Firebird Sweet._

I appreciate your reviews/faves and thank you for reading this tale!

There's more than one bottle with Hiei's name on it.

Farewell, Mr. Groovy (2: I Cover The Waterfront)

by

Kenshin

Adjusting his collar, Hiei stepped into trench-coat weather. Luckily he was equipped with a black, single-breasted military-sleek number by London Fog.

He looked like a B-movie spy working for the wrong side. _Way to blend in,_ he thought.

And then there was the car.

The 1963 Nissan Viper prototype. Low-slung, flame-red, with an engine like a lion's roar, and about as invisible as the Batmobile at high noon.

Couldn't help that. An effusively grateful client had pressed it upon Hiei just last week.

Though parked a few blocks north of the Agency building, Hiei headed on foot three doors down to Cafe Suave, a tie-and-jacket coffee shop frequented by agents and businessmen alike.

Given the hour, around eight AM, and the miserable weather, the place was all but deserted. Nevertheless Hiei sat in a secluded back booth.

Fortified with a double espresso, Hiei opened the Mr. Groovy dossier.

Even knowing that with his eidetic memory, a mere glance would burn the dossier into his brain, Hiei nevertheless read it twice, for good measure. There was little to read. He wasn't even done with his espresso by the time he slipped the papers back into their envelope and the envelope into his trench coat next to N's spending cash.

No espionage. Nothing to suggest foul play in the demise of the TV star. Hiei thought the chief was chasing a dream of justice, a doomed mission soaked in as much potential failure as the streets were soaked in rain.

But at least the pay was good.

Mr. Groovy. A rubber-faced man of about 40 with button-black eyes, crow's-wing pompadour, a blaring brash voice and a toothy grin.

Mr. Groovy had started out hosting a cheerful and popular variety show, which ran for several years, but some time before his decline and death, the show had degraded into Mr. G seeking out and embarrassing people in their native habitat.

Given the guy's obnoxious on-air persona, Hiei was surprised that everyone hadn't already killed him.

But Mr. Groovy had his fan base. Kuwabara, naturally. Also, at one point, Hiei recalled, Romantic Soldier had been slated to appear on the show, but a scheduling conflict prevented this. 'Mr. Groovy' was the only program that Koenma, the brat who ran the Reikai Bureau, and Joruju Saotome, his big blue oni of an assistant, watched together.

Since Hiei couldn't decide which of those two he held in greater contempt, he would not be calling on them.

Cafe Suave had windows even in the back. With bitter black espresso warming his throat, Hiei gazed out the window at soggy passersby, planning his next move.

Due to the unofficial nature of the job, conventional routes of investigation were out. But he could hardly tap people at random, asking, "Which of you did in Mr. Groovy?"

There were, however, a couple of people in mind-prime sources to tap.

The first source was a passing acquaintance with no permanent address and zero class. The second was in a class by himself, living for the moment at a temporary abode.

The neighborhoods of each potential source were as different as the people themselves.

Worst first. Which might prove more fun.

Hiei went out into the sullen rain to find the Corpse and Bucket.

The Corpse and Bucket was in a dangerous district on the waterfront, but Hiei was unlikely to get his throat slit.

Sometimes it was good to have a bad reputation.

Though the residents of that district may have feared and respected Hiei, they would have no such qualms about his vintage car. He drove to the nearest neighborhood where his wheels would remain intact, and greased the palm of a cab driver, who took him as far as a cross-street.

With the cab fleeing behind him and clouds like rotten cauliflower above, Hiei approached the Corpse and Bucket.

The bar crouched like a venomous toad in an alley redolent of old socks and yesterday's sake.

Where the name came from, no one knew, and Hiei wasn't asking. Maybe it was due to the leaky roof, calling for the strategic placement of tin buckets around the floor.

Today was a five-bucket day.

The interior was long and narrow, with occupied rickety tables on one side, and the bar on the other. There was just enough light to see.

His tough-guy persona was firmly in place, Hiei listened to rain clattering into tin buckets and the low grumble of bar flies. No music, no television. The TV over the bar took a bullet through its picture tube two years ago, and no one had bothered replacing it. The radio had been eaten last year.

When Hiei stepped inside, all chatter ceased. The tinny ballad of rain continued, unimpressed with Hiei's reputation.

The bar itself reeked of stale sweat, but there was an undertone of tar, probably from the wood-plank flooring torn off a shipwreck moments before the ship itself actually sank.

The bartender looked like a first cousin of the abominable snowman. Hiei's quarry, Futoi Junior, was draped over the bar, brown-bagging it, gnawing something that Hiei did not care to look at.

Futoi Junior, gambler, runner of numbers, petty thief and occasional strong-arm.

His family name, Futoi, meant 'thick.' It was well-placed. Junior resembled a cartoon bulldog stuffed into human skin, for all that he was a youkai. Sartorially splendid with undersized derby hat teetering on a cannonball head, Junior sported a five-o-clock shadow at nine in the morning. His yellowed undershirt revealed that same five-o-clock shadow all over lumpy shoulders. Small hairy ears came to backward points. Clamped in his undershot jaw was a dead cigar stump.

Hiei grinned and stepped forward. The pirated planks creaked a warning. Junior's face did not light up when he spotted Hiei.

"Ahh, crap," he muttered, in a voice like an oil slick. "It's you."

"Nothing gets past Mamma Futoi's eldest." Hiei slid into the rickety seat next to Junior.

"Ahhhh, crap."

"You shouldn't call yourself such names," said Hiei. "It's bad for your self-esteem."

"You're a humorous guy."

"And you don't have a Green Card, as I recall. Which means A: I turn you in, or B: I drag you into the nearest alley and bounce you on a few walls just to work off some steam."

Junior stroked his bristly jaw. "I ain't done nothin' steam-worthy," he said at length.

"Who says it's you I'm steamed at? What's that you're drinking? Spit in a snail shell?"

"Nectar of the gods. What'm I supposed to have did dis time? Strickly in a speculative sense."

"Depends." Hiei peeled a bill off N's bankroll and laid it on the bar, signaling for the yeti bartender to buy Junior another round of nectar.

The yeti uncorked a tall brown bottle stinking of furniture polish. The scent briefly did battle with the smell of creosote as he dribbled liquor into Junior's glass.

The furniture polish won.

"You are a gennleman and a scholar," said Junior, grabbing his drink. With lifted pinky, he downed it at a shot and coughed, "Here's to ya."

"Well?" pressed Hiei.

Junior's powerful jaws ruminated on something. "Depends on what like?"

The barkeep laid a thick shot glass filled with thumbprints and varnish in front of Hiei for his trouble. Hiei leaned away from it to give the flies a chance.

"On whether you offed Mr. Groovy all by your lonesome," Hiei said, "or if you needed to call in an army."

"Don't even make light of such a thing!" Junior's tobacco-juice eyes watered. "That Mr. Groovy-he wuz da best!"

"Who'd want to kill him?"

"No one I knew. Guy was a real card and a half."

Hiei gave Junior the benefit of his deathglare.

It was Futoi who, years ago, had steered Hiei in Kurama's direction, implying that Kurama had something to do with the disappearance of Hiei's sister Yukina.

Of course, Kurama had done no such thing. It was a miracle that Hiei and Kurama had not slain one another due to that little misunderstanding, but instead became allies.

Hiei had to conclude that this time, Junior was telling the truth. Junior might have been selling a mistake when he tipped Hiei to Kurama all those years ago, but he was really a decent of sort thug, and Hiei was fond of him, in a way that did not preclude roughing him up in an alley should that prove necessary.

Besides, Junior claimed to be a fan, and was far too dense to fabricate such an act and keep it up for the time it took to gulp two drinks.

"Lookin' for clues?" Junior scratched his beetling brow. "Why don'cha ax them jockeys you usually get yer info from?"

"They don't come out in this weather." Jaki, as was their correct name, are small youkai used as messengers and spies. Though some are humanoid in form, many resemble rats or squirrels, and can easily pass among humans without raising suspicion. For whatever complicated reasons, some of which included the generous application of rice crackers and other edible bribes, jaki looked upon Hiei with awe. "And that better not be one you were eating just now."

"'Course not." The big grinding jaws worked furiously. Junior gulped the lump down. "Wait a minnit! You ain't suggestin' that no one's offed him? Not Mr. Groovy?"

"You're quick on the draw, aren't you?"

"You're serious!"

"I'm not even here," amended Hiei. "Enjoy your fruit fly a la mode."

"'Cause if someone did off Mr. Groovy," growled Junior, "there'd be plenty of us boys waitin' to clean his clock."

"Thanks for the tip, Junior."

"Not that I am into the clock-cleanin' business myself any more, but I would personally write such a miscreant my very own perzen pen letter."

Junior's remark about the letter served to galvanize an idea with which Hiei had been toying. Skinning off another bill, he thrust it at Junior along with his own glass of thumbprints, and left Junior scratching his head in puzzlement.

0-0-0-0-0

His car was still there, not a hubcap missing, and Hiei was more than grateful to drive into the good part of the harbor district, where his car wasn't likely to be disassembled, nor would he discover a shiv sticking from the middle of his back.

His destination was a small pen boutique.

Taisen Shop was clean and cool and, after the Corpse and Bucket, it smelled wonderfully of air conditioning and ink.

The pleasant young clerk was more than happy to sell Hiei a bottle of ink shaped like a shoe, allowing him to dip-test the ink with a loaner pen, explaining why the admittedly peculiar shape of the bottle made sense: so the user could tilt it and access the last few drops of ink.

It only remained to select a color. The clerk lined up bottles, naming the colors, explaining the virtues of each.

They had black. It was what Hiei himself might have chosen, or that deep midnight blue. Certainly not the red, or the suspicious lavender, or the burgundy. However, this ink was not for him.

Hiei hovered over the bottles. As though the ink was made of liquid magnets and himself steel, his hand dropped itself on one with such force that he was lucky it didn't break.

Shaking off an eerie feeling, he said, "I'll take it."

He also chose a pen to go with the bottle. The clerk wrapped both, and placed them a gold-foil gift bag.

Hiei departed the boutique into dirty, clotted rainclouds to find his next quarry.

(To Be Continued: An almost-empty house and a surprise guest deepens the mystery.)

-30-


	3. Racing Green

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Farewell, Mr. Groovy (C3: Racing Green )

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General, Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: Delivering ink is easier than delivering on a promise.

A/N: Rokurokubi Block, the location of Yojigen Mansion, plays a prominent role in the YYH anime's Chapter Black.

I appreciate your reviews and thank you for reading this tale!

Poison pen, meet your ink.

Farewell, Mr. Groovy (3: Racing Green)

by

Kenshin

Hiei's spirits, lifted by his interview with Junior, sank again. The clouds had morphed from rotting heads of cauliflower to fat garden slugs all in a row, and he drove away from the pen boutique feeling as though the rain itself pressed his mood back down to his socks.

After a detour to pick up some food, he sought Rokurokubi Block, where even realtors feared to tread.

Rokurokubi Block was on its way up or down, depending on your perspective, and how you counted the number of abandoned buildings, though the neighborhood posed no threat to Hiei.

Nicknamed 'Derelict's Row,' Rokurokubi Block was home to the eminently creepy Yojigen Mansion. But that was not Hiei's destination. He was seeking expertise, and it lived in an austere white house on the outskirts of the neighborhood, where properties were being reclaimed.

The two-storied structure was bordered by a concrete wall, and within the wall, the yard had been plowed for seeding.

Everything looked new, raw, and in danger of drowning.

This was the temporary abode of Kaitou Yuu, boy genius. One of Kaitou's colleagues had bought the house, left on a business trip, and was paying Kaitou to house-sit.

At the age of 16, Kaitou Yuu had already been a published author. Several years later, he was still making his living via the pen, and Hiei needed Kaitou's vast knowledge of the arts.

Gift bag in one hand, food in the other, and rain hammering down, Hiei plodded to the door.

It was open.

The vast, cool hallway had oak-plank flooring, with cream-colored walls that smelled of fresh paint. Down the hall, a kitchen. To the right, an empty living room. To the left, a dining room with a packing crate and folding metal chairs. Another folding chair and a rug runner completed the hall decor.

New and raw. Like when he and his Firebird had started out.

The memory should have pleased him. What was wrong?

He stepped in. Voices came from upstairs.

Draping his raincoat on the folding chair, Hiei left his sneakers on the runner and followed the sounds up, to a room that faced the back.

This was a big space sparsely furnished with cast-offs, and the same flooring and paint as below. A window on the far wall washed the room with dishwater light.

At a battered round table in the middle of the room sat Kaitou Yuu, but he was not alone.

Hiei was surprised to see Kurama as well, frowning at the chessboard between them. That changed the game.

Kaitou Yuu looked the part of a bookworm, with his thick black eyeglasses and curling black hair. A somewhat bulky physique was topped by a pale face of lean austerity. Even his expensively cut tweeds were bookish.

Though he was subject to nerves, given to the use of fifty-cent words, and would have to pay someone to tear a phone book in half, Kaitou Yuu's appearance disguised a rock-solid core of courage and determination.

Taller, built for speed, Kurama had a brown leather jacket slung over the back of his chair. Long russet hair curtained his face and hid his keen emerald gaze.

Kurama matched Kaitou's sheer intellect, but would always win the battle of nerves. A disarmingly soft voice masked razor-sharp physical conditioning and an inborn power as a master of plants. A supreme fighter, a supreme ally.

Hiei just wasn't sure how the two of them stacked up against a dead TV star.

He set the food on a card table. "House seems a little basic."

"That it is." Without looking up, Kaitou added, "But then I don't need much."

"I sincerely hope your needs extend to indoor plumbing."

"One downstairs, two down the hall."

To wash away the Corpse and Bucket miasma, Hiei found the nearest bathroom: big, yellow-tiled and as sparsely furnished as the rest of the house. But there were towels in its linen closet, and soap at the sink.

The guy who bought it must have seen potential in this empty rambler, or the crumbled neighborhood, or something.

Back in Kaitou's room, Hiei watched Kaitou and Kurama watch the chessboard.

"I smell food," said Kurama, by way of greeting.

"Ramen, miso soup, yaki udon, yakisoba. The tuna rolls have my name on them."

Kurama glanced at the spread. "You really went all-out."

"What are you doing here anyway?" Hiei snagged a tuna roll. "Aren't you knee-deep in classes at St. Francis Xavier?"

"Only two of them," murmured Kurama, his hand hovering over a bishop. "The instructor for the first had an unfortunate event and asked if I could take over. I decided that class was better off canceled."

"You didn't by any chance arrange this 'unfortunate event'?"

"Sensei broke his ankle playing rugby."

"So he claims." Kaitou rose, stretched, and opened a carton of noodles. "Yukimura's place? They use the _best_ grease."

Abandoning his bishop, Kurama got up, too. "Can't play chess on an empty stomach."

_Chess,_ thought Hiei, with a scornful glance at the board. _That's fine as an intellectual exercise. But most pieces can only move in certain, predetermined directions. In a real battle, your opponent always has unexpected moves._

When they finished eating, Kaitou and Kurama returned to their game. Before they could resume play, Hiei lifted the gold bag from Taisen Shop. "Kaitou. Got you something."

Kurama said, "No present for me? I'm leaving."

"Jackass." Hiei shook his head in fond exasperation. "Wasn't planning on a double bribe."

"Kaitou's destroying me anyway." Flinging his jacket over one shoulder, Kurama ambled to the door. "I suspect him of massive cheating."

"Pay Minamino no mind," said Kaitou. "He just wants to divert attention from the fact that he pushed his sensei down the stairs merely to get out of class."

"You see what I'm dealing with?" Kurama glanced back with a manufactured expression of wounded pride.

Kaitou and Kurama in the same room. Taken separately, Hiei would easily have the upper hand, but together, their combined quirks spiraled into a sort of idiocy that left him off-balance.

It was an unexpected effect, too, given their basic personalities. But Kaitou and Kurama were not chess pieces.

Kaitou glanced into the gift bag. "Racing Green? A bottle of Montblanc ink is a fairly serious bribe."

"Probably involves risking life and limb," agreed Kurama.

"Ch! It's not like I can't look up Mr. Groovy on my own." Hiei rose. "Keep the ink. Use it for your poison-pen letters."

"Mr. Groovy?" Kurama turned and flung his jacket back on the chair. "My mother-"

Hiei groaned. "Don't tell me your mother's a fan."

"Mother? To the contrary. She forbids even the mention of his name."

Kaitou was intrigued. "Mine, too. Dad thought he was funny. What about Shay-san?"

"You know. Women of a certain demographic... she was going to shoot the TV. I had to pry the gun out of her hand."

"Lucky she didn't shoot _you,_" Kurama said. "Referring to her as a demographic."

"I didn't do it to her face."

"You went to see Keiko and Yuusuke," Kurama added.

Kaitou pushed his glasses up to peer at Kurama. "Which you assumed by the label on the food, Sherlock."

"And the fact that Kaitou mentioned it," said Hiei.

"Well?" Kurama lifted an expectant eyebrow.

Hiei shrugged. "Yukimura thinks Mr. Groovy's an idiot. Yuusuke thinks he's brilliant."

Kurama nodded. "That sounds about right."

"What's this about Mr. Groovy anyway?" Kaitou wondered.

Hiei filled them in, throwing the dossier on the table. "A little thin. I suspect N himself compiled it in a hurry."

Opening the envelope, Kaitou riffled through the three sheets. "Wakayama Banta was his real name?"

Hiei nodded. "Just an entertainer, a nobody."

"Like you," said Kurama, brightly.

"Shut up."

"Aren't we touchy today," said Kaitou.

"I'm always touchy. So who might have wanted to kill him?"

"That's how your mind works?" Kaitou snorted. "Somebody dies, and you immediately jump to murder?"

"Consider that he may have run out on some trouble," Kurama suggested.

"That's not what N thinks."

"Or that it's exactly as it says here." Kaitou tapped the first sheet. "Drunk and destitute."

Hiei could only repeat, "That's not what N thinks."

"Fine." Grabbing the gift bag, Kaitou wheeled his chair to a desk containing a stack of books and a laptop computer. "I want to make a few notes."

"There's a pen, too," Hiei said.

Kaitou took out the pen and squinted: a slim green Pilot 78G costing the equivalent of eight dollars. "Too bad it couldn't be a Montblanc to match the ink."

"My generosity doesn't run that high, and the Pilot will suck up ink just as well as any Meisterstuck."

"Spoilsport." Kaitou filled the pen, then started scribbling in a small spiral-bound notebook.

"I really do have to go," said Kurama. "But, Hiei, refresh my memory. Didn't you buy your house from an Englishman?"

"Yeah. Geoffrey Lambeth. A video director."

"Doesn't the name Mr. Groovy...?"

"That's right." Hiei frowned. "He'd said once that he wished he could have worked on the 'Mr. Groovy' show. At the time, I thought he meant..." Hiei trailed off, replaying the conversation in his eidetic memory. "But he said he wished he had been OLD enough to work on the Mr. Groovy show. So what was he referring to?"

"A British show by the same name," said Kaitou.

Both Hiei and Kurama swiveled their heads toward Kaitou. Hiei beat Kurama to the punch. "That was fast."

"I've been around," Kaitou said, still scribbling.

"So have I," said Kurama. "And as much as I enjoy watching you scowl, Hiei, and you, Kaitou, make marks on paper, I do have an upcoming class. If I find something I'll get back to you." With that, Kurama took his leave.

Downstairs, the door opened, then shut. Hiei gazed out the dishwater window, trying to collect his thoughts.

"This ink," Kaitou began. "I didn't need a bribe. Not that I am unappreciative. But it is a significant choice."

Hiei glanced his way. "Oh?"

"Racing Green. A British sort of motif. And an English Mr. Groovy." Kaitou fell back to his research like a bulldog on a bone, working laptop and pen with equal ferocity.

_Significant? Spooky. I need to shake this off._ "Already called on my best stool pigeon. Not sure where to go next."

Kaitou barely looked up. "Well, you'd have to ask the usual questions, wouldn't you? Who stood to gain by his death-"

"A bunch of disgruntled middle-aged women-"

"-and who had the motive, means, opportunity-"

"Who's the detective here?"

"There are a few things I want to check out," said Kaitou. "If I need to reach you-"

"I'll be pounding the beat."

"Got it. But in the meantime, why not ask Kuwabara?"

"I was afraid you would get around to that."

"Only makes sense. Mind if I copy the dossier?"

"Keep it. Keep the food, too."

"Thanks. It'll come in handy. Save me a trip in the rain."

Good old Kaitou Yuu, diligent house-sitter, wanting to keep dry so he wouldn't mess up the floors.

Hiei went back down. Gathering his gear, he trudged from the house into the sky's ceaseless drooling.

It was now mid-afternoon. Hiei's rash promise to solve the case hung over him like the Sword of Damocles, and with the prospect of facing Kuwabara, the sword might as well fall.

(To Be Continued: Where's...library?)

-30-


	4. Off-Balance

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Farewell, Mr. Groovy (C4: Off-Balance)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General/Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: A voice within Hiei isn't the only thing tipping him off-balance.

A/N: The events in _Idiot Beloved_ take place shortly after the Dark Tournament; _Firebird Sweet_ directly follows that timeline. In order for certain character development to make sense, you might read those fics in order.

Can't leave Kuwabara out of the equation!

"Want fries with your epiphany?"

Farewell, Mr. Groovy (4: Off-Balance)

by

Kenshin

"Mr. Groovy?" Kuwabara Kazuma squirted a blob of ketchup onto his tray, dunked a fist-full of fries, then leaned back to shove them into his maw.

Hiei averted his eyes, lest the sight of the idiot's gluttony put him off his own feed.

Six feet of sheer gristle, Kuwabara had an Easter Island slab of a face, and a sixth sense to rival Shayla Kidd's. Bareheaded, as scornful of the weather as Hiei, his carrot-colored hair glistened with nesting raindrops. "Ain't like I was a crazed fan or nothin'," he said, glancing up at the clock.

It was about three in the afternoon. Still hungry, the tuna rolls having already been burnt as fuel, and unwilling to tackle Kuwabara at home, Hiei had met him at Jimmy Burger.

A downtown joint popular with students, Jimmy's logo consisted of two iconic images: the grinning cow, Klara, evidently joyful to give her life so busy students could chow down on her; and Koko the Potato, beaming as the meat cleaver descended to slice him to ribbons and shove him in a vat of boiling oil.

Some people could see a bright side to anything.

Although that did not describe Hiei himself, chasing Mr. Groovy's mystery killer had underscored that he could change personas as often as he changed jobs.

At the Corpse and Bucket, grilling Futoi Junior, Hiei was all tough-guy. Back at Kaitou's, he'd been the curmudgeon. Here, with the idiot: yards of razor-edged annoyance and a towering condescension. "Not rabid. That's a switch."

Kuwabara didn't take the bait. With a shrug of his massive shoulders, he replied, "I liked him well enough. Yeah, Mr. Groovy." He grinned. "Used to watch him with Ohkubo and them. Sometimes with Urameshi. But lately I'm all outta free time."

"Story of my life."

"Sez you. The guy still workin' in La La Land. Show biz. Ohkubo and them have _real_ jobs now. Even Urameshi."

"I'll get it tattooed on my left thumb." It was doubly galling to Hiei that Shayla Kidd and Kuwabara had taken an instant shine to each other, like brother and sister.

After all shouldn't Shay-san, an only child and an American transplant, be permitted friends? Kaitou was fond of her too, even relishing when she treated him like a ten-year-old. This amused Hiei, as did her big-sister act with Kurama.

Then why was he resentful of the idiot?

A voice in his head hissed: _"It's got nothing to do with the fact that Kuwabara annoys you; that's just another part you play. You want out. Stuck in the human world where you don't belong, saddled with a family you don't want-"_

"That's not true!"

Kuwabara glanced up, mouth full of burger. "Huh?"

"Nothing." Hiei hurriedly dug into his fries.

Kuwabara glanced at the clock again.

"Don't let me detain you," encouraged Hiei.

"It ain't that. I'm sittin' in on an anatomy class later at St. Francis Xavier."

"That school? Where Kurama...?"

"Yeah. Same school."

"So you really do intend to teach science."

"Why would that surprise you?"

"No reason." Hiei fell into an uneasy silence. The interior voice was a weight on his windpipe.

"Everything's connected, y'know." Kuwabara spoke through a mouthful of burger. "And I ain't just talking anatomy."

"Right."

"I mean it. Don't you ever feel stuff like that?"

"If I did I wouldn't tell _you._"

The moment Hiei spoke it, he knew it was a cheap shot.

Kuwabara was not a chess piece. He was a person, full of surprises and strange moves. Hiei was the one who had not changed, who was unwilling to relinquish his view of Kuwabara: Kuwabara the idiot, the braying donkey, the fool, loud and rude and annoying.

But if Shayla Kidd was fond of Kuwabara Kazuma, surely he had redeeming qualities. And since Hiei's sister Yukina was also fond of him-

"I know you don't think I got the right stuff to become a science teacher," Kuwabara said. "I started out to make someone proud of me."

Hiei understood the 'someone' to be Yukina.

"But then it took on a life of its own."

"And if you make her unhappy," Hiei said, "I'll shred you."

"Goes without saying." Kuwabara crushed the burger wrapping into a ball. "I better head on out."

Hiei took a deep breath. "Me, too."

But Kuwabara lingered. "Listen, if anyone killed Mr. Groovy, he did a great job. No inquest, no investigation-"

"There is now."

"But it's just you, ain't it? And on N's dime at that." He jerked a broad thumb at his empty tray, indicating the meal Hiei had paid for with N's money.

The rain-glazed window revealed street lights, struggling to thrust back the darkness.

Kuwabara smoothed out the wrapper, but it still retained innumerable peaks and valleys. "If there is a killer, and he's that good, he'll be on to you by now."

"Thought of that." If Hiei had to fight a killer, would it lighten his mood? "Futoi's got a big mouth."

"Well, it ain't like you can't look after yourself."

A compliment, coming from the big man opposite him.

This time the voice was quieter, but far more sinister. _"Too chicken to return to Makai, are you? Too many responsibilities? Do what Mr. Groovy did. Off yourself."_

Hiei knew he was capable of malcontent, of ingratitude, but he had never before directed it against his Firebird.

He didn't like it.

"I'm chasing phantoms," Hiei muttered.

"Maybe." Balling up the wrappings again, Kuwabara pushed his tray aside. "So quit."

"I didn't understand that word. It's not in my dictionary."

"You ain't strapped for cash, right?"

"I still don't understand this foreign word, 'quit.'"

"Okay. So you believe N."

"Don't know if I do or not, but _he_ believes it."

"Guess I gotta respect that."

Hiei nodded. "And I guess I owe him the day's work."

"Did Mr. Groovy have any enemies?"

"None that I can tell."

"Debt?"

"Destitute, but no one put a lien on his assets."

"Then it don't add up. Like you're missin' a piece."

Hiei studied the rain pressing in at the window. "I'm missing a lot more than that."

"Maybe you're comin' at it from the wrong end."

"What other end is there?"

"No idea." Kuwabara shook his head. "But good luck." Rising, he took Hiei's empty tray along with his own.

Hiei surprised himself by saying, "Thanks."

Kuwabara Kazuma left Jimmy Burger, but Hiei lingered at the table, pondering his connection with Mr. Groovy, a man whose persona seemed as far from his own as Everest from the jungles of the Amazon.

The way Hiei saw it, there were three separate problems. One, his recent dissatisfaction had just gained a voice. Two, he'd gotten this case out of the blue. Three, there was that sense of an outside force, leading him by the nose.

If everything was connected, as Kuwabara said-

Something disturbing about the brash, braying Mr. Groovy had found its echo in his old friend Kuwabara Kazuma and had soaked him to the skin.

Time was eating him up. The alleged killer wasn't going to jump into his lap.

Hiei was just making his rain-splatted way to the Viper when he got a call from Kaitou Yuu.

(To Be Continued: The ace of groovy.)

-30-


	5. Aces Up

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Farewell, Mr. Groovy (C5: Aces Up)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: General/Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: Kaitou Yuu uncovers an old gem.

A/N: Any character sketches can be viewed on my blogspot.

The events in _Idiot Beloved_ take place shortly after the Dark Tournament; _Firebird Sweet_ directly follows that timeline. In order for certain character development to make sense, you might read those fics in order. For reference, I use a combination of the American YYH manga and the subtitled anime. I appreciate your reviews and thank you for reading this tale!

As day fades into night, Hiei runs out of options.

Farewell, Mr. Groovy (5: Aces Up)

by

Kenshin

The Fukuzumi Kon Library looked like someone's _house_.

Named after its founder, a wealthy scholar of the arts, this was a rambling single-story building with tile roof, cedar siding, and pebble landscaping. It hid behind a typical concrete wall, and if you didn't know it was there you'd walk right past it, for there was no sign to announce its function.

Inside, it still looked like someone's house. Someone whose tastes ran to hardwood floors, jacquard-patterned rugs, and mahogany furniture. But reminding Hiei that it was, after all, a library, a woman seated at the front desk stopped him.

She looked less like a librarian than a surgical nurse with a taste for sharp instruments.

"Don't just stand there dripping onto the floor," she snapped. "What do you want?"

"Kaitou Yuu."

She gave Hiei a look that could have dissected frogs, but nevertheless pointed him to a half-opened door down the hall.

The windowless room was furnished with jewel-toned oriental rugs, wing chairs, and sleek study tables. One of the tables held a pile of opened books. There were reading lamps with green glass shades, creating an illusion of warmth. Built-in bookshelves of oak occupied three of the walls, and one sturdy metal shelf unit neatly bisected the space.

Kaitou Yuu sat at a desk adjacent to the door, an attache case at his elbow and a computer in front of him, contentedly scribbling notes in Montblanc Racing Green.

"Not a bad pen," said Kaitou, without glancing up. "This Pilot. A little slim for my manly hands, but-"

"What have you got for me?" Hiei was damp and weary and had just been one-upped by Kuwabara.

"Grab a chair." Kaitou swiveled the monitor toward Hiei, explaining that the image he was about to see would be grainy, wavering, and all but obscured, owing not only to its age, but that it had been shot directly onto movie film while pointed at a television screen.

"Got it," said Hiei. "Bad image, lousy view."

With a couple of mouse clicks and a flourish, Kaitou said, "Hiei-meet Mr. Groovy."

Hiei leaned in to watch. The blurry, black-and-white image was indeed of a television set, judging by the bars rolling at intervals down the screen. The camera must have been set close to the TV, for its screen filled almost the entire frame.

Hiei had sharp eyes, but he could barely make out the wiry man in an Edwardian-looking suit, standing in front of a curtained backdrop.

The man was singing a song about coconuts. In English.

"This footage was probably recorded on a single-system news camera," whispered Kaitou. "Home movie cameras of the time weren't capable of recording sound."

The guy sang on. A brash voice for a brash tune. While he sang he gyrated like a fool, sticking out his tongue, miming a handful of coconuts. Kuwabara would probably find it amusing.

The clip ended. Barely thirty seconds of it.

Hiei turned to Kaitou. "And I'm looking at...?"

"The only known surviving footage of Mr. Groovy."

"But he's _British_."

"And your target is Japanese," said a familiar voice. From the shadows of the stacks, Kurama melted up next to Hiei.

"Don't _do_ that," said Hiei, in mild irritation.

"Do what?" Kurama's green eyes widened in mock-innocence.

"Didn't you have a class?"

"It's over. And this is more fun. We are, after all, the aces of research."

"Minamino thinks I'll screw things up if left to my own devices," Kaitou explained.

"Poring through dusty teen magazines is deadly work." Kurama caught Hiei's glare. "I'll admit to being curious."

Kaitou Yuu angled his notebook at Hiei and turned a few pages. The pages were filled with green scribbles; cartoon faces spouting idiotic thought balloons.

"Didn't know you had it in you," said Hiei.

Kaitou shook his head. "This is Minamino's handiwork. I had to take the pen away from him before he turned it into a corkscrew."

"Don't exaggerate," murmured Kurama.

"And he made me play the Mr. Groovy clip so many times I thought the machine had an aneurysm."

Kurama coughed into his left hand.

"Laughing like a maniac all the while," added Kaitou.

"_You_ laughed, too," said Kurama.

"At first." Kaitou shrugged. "You almost can't help it. But I got over it. Unlike some people I could mention."

Kurama folded his arms. "Are you implying that I haven't?"

"Implication is as implication does."

Hiei waited with a mix of impatience and amusement. "Has he started throwing spitballs?"

"Don't give him ideas," said Kaitou.

"I've seen kindergartners with more dignity," Hiei replied, then stopped.

Normally, this three-way exchange would lead to a long and fruitful series of escalating insults. The spirit wasn't in him now. He felt different from the man who had cheerfully tapped a stool pigeon only this morning.

He tried, though. "Keep it down or that old witch out front will poison you with a look."

"Mrs. Sadaharu?" Kaitou seemed shocked. "She is an angel. I won't hear a word against her."

"What did you do to that poor woman?" Kurama wondered. "Bite her? She was kind enough to me."

"She would be," Hiei grumbled.

"Mr. Groovy's real name was Jack Hughes." Kaitou dragged them back down to earth. "And this clip was from the late 1960s. Even though the BBC wiped Mr. Groovy's programs from their archives, he was famous in his day. There were Mr. Groovy ties... tobacco... even a line of coconut pies."

"You know what _that's_ like," said Kurama, turning a slightly wicked glint on Hiei. "Those fifteen minutes of fame."

"So do you." Hiei reached forward and ran the clip again. The wiry man in the Edwardian-looking suit obligingly sang and danced. It was almost like being able to summon the dead.

"So we have a face to attach to the English Mr. Groovy," said Hiei. "What's this mean in terms of my target? Identity theft? Programming theft?"

"Not necessarily," said Kaitou. "A lot of programming ideas fertilize back and forth between countries. A producer will license a basic idea from another country and adapt it."

"Does that mean Mr. Groovy of Tokyo could have had a such a license?" said Hiei. "Or did he steal the idea?"

"If he did," put in Kurama, all business now, "nobody cared. I went through the archives of the school's library, looking for news of a lawsuit against 'your' Mr. Groovy. Any kind of copyright infringement would have been all over the papers. But there wasn't anything."

"Got it." Tucked away in this windowless room, Hiei could imagine that it had stopped raining. The drumming on the roof told him otherwise. "What happened to this English guy?"

"He dropped out of the scene," said Kaitou.

Hiei glanced at the frozen image of Mr. Groovy. "Dead?"

"I didn't find an obit," said Kurama.

"Could he have come to Japan looking to have it out with Wakayama Banta-'my' Mr. Groovy?"

Kurama reached over to Kaitou's notebook and flipped a couple of pages. "Hughes had a prime time program, 'Mr. Groovy's Carnaby Street,' in which he did live interviews, practical jokes and sang and danced a little."

Kaitou took over, stating that Carnaby was THE street in London, back in the day, for young people to parade in their finery, to meet one another and show off. The street and the kids, considered a social phenomenon back then, were echoed here in present-day Japan by certain shopping avenues.

"The Carnaby Street show ran for a couple of years on the BBC," said Kurama, reading from Kaitou's notes. "Then the ratings slipped, and it was canceled. He moved to another network with an afternoon variety show that was also canceled."

"So," Kaitou reclaimed his notes. "With Jack Hughes being probably close to 40 when the Carnaby Street show started, he'd be in his 70s now. Mr. Wakayama's Groovy show started in 1992."

"That's a long interval," said Kurama. "If Jack Hughes was after Wakayama Banta, why wait so many years to take revenge?"

"Beats me." Hiei rose and prowled the room, but there wasn't much space for it. "Still more questions than answers."

Kaitou swiveled his chair around to track Hiei. "Do you know what this reminds me of?"

"Can't wait to find out."

"A film noir. With you in the starring role."

"I couldn't be happier." Hiei made a move toward the door.

But Kurama blocked his path. "Why the urgency?"

"A case like this could take days," said Kaitou.

"Weeks," said Kurama.

"Months," Kaitou added.

Brushing Kurama aside, Hiei returned to the desk. "Because I told N I'd solve it by tomorrow."

Kaitou whistled. "That certainly changes the game."

"Looks like you'll have to adjust your timeline." Kurama followed Hiei back to the desk.

On the monitor, Mr. Groovy's frozen image leered at Hiei.

Hiei turned away. Mr. Groovy was still dead. Futoi didn't know anything. Nobody knew anything.

If he could bridge the odd gap between Carnaby Street and Tokyo, he might have the key to unlock this dilemma. "How do I fill in the missing pieces?"

"This library has a few old tomes that cover popular culture," said Kaitou. "Minamino and I can stay here and dig a little further. But there are also certain antique shops down in the Myu-Myu district that specialize in ephemera."

"If you're not afraid of dust and mold," added Kurama.

"Or cooties," said Kaitou.

"I'm shaking."

"Hadn't you better get a move on?" Kurama turned to Hiei with a mischievous lift of his eyebrow. "Before it rains?"

(To Be Continued: Next stop: Desolation.)

-30-


	6. Desolation Row

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Farewell, Mr. Groovy (C6: Desolation Row)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: Gen/Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: A shop that's shut, a lighted window above, and rain pouring down.

A/N: The Myu-Myu district, a notorious downtown area, shows up in _Firebird Sweet_ and a few of my other stories.

"I changed a little."

Farewell, Mr. Groovy (6: Desolation Row)

by

Kenshin

Hiei in the rain, thinking of a dead man.

Wakayama Banta, rubber-faced, loud-voiced, black of hair and eyes, teeth as white and perfect as Chiclets. Hiei, tracking the killer, bullets of water splattering his shoulders, ricocheting onto his bare head.

The trail was as cold as the weather.

It was full dark now, and Hiei supposed he could have been a little more miserable if he had dived to the bottom of Tokyo Harbor and stayed there.

It was beginning to sound like an appealing alternative.

Alas, the Myu-Myu district was too far from the waterfront. And though certain of its neighborhoods were almost as dangerous as the Corpse and Bucket, others were undergoing renovation.

Such was the street known as 'Desolation Row:'a block populated with shabbily genteel businesses like antique parlors, tailors, and purveyors of dry goods. Many had limited hours. Some admitted custom by appointment only.

Trudging from store to store, Hiei inquired about books or memorabilia which might contain information about Mr. Groovy, information so old, arcane, and at the time deemed so unimportant it not yet been committed to the electronic highways.

Wakayama Banta was too new to be of interest to these shopkeepers. And none of them had heard of Jack Hughes.

It was a fool's mission anyway.

When a young shopkeeper offered him a Mr. Groovy badge of no interest, and said it was closing time, Hiei turned back, admitting defeat, wondering just how he would break into Wakayama's apartment without implicating the Agency.

The French Connexion, which he had previously bypassed, now had a light in its window. _Try again._

An elderly woman opened the door.

Her hair was dyed an implausible bing-cherry red, which did nothing to disguise her age, and she seemed at home among dusty treasures of the past. Clutching at her fringed shawl, she studied Hiei with shrewd, glittering eyes.

"Dearie," she said, stepping back to admit him into the crowded space, "I'm only locking the cash register. And I don't mean to rush you, but I've a hot meal waiting upstairs."

Hiei glanced around. Lace on the shelves. Yellowed paintings of fruit and flowers on the walls.

Patiently-for him-Hiei explained what he was looking for. His inquiry was met with a quick shake of the head and another prolonged sigh. "Please your great kind self, but much as I hate to turn down a sale, we've nothing of the sort."

Her accent might have been British.

"Try the shop three doors down," she advised. "He's relatively new. Might have something more in your line."

Out into the rain again.

This shop, too, had been closed when Hiei first passed by, and was closed still. But two stories above the shop, on the third floor, a light glowed.

Hiei stood gazing at the light.

No hours posted on the door. Hiei peered into the darkened space. An impression of books, and where there were not books, shelves filled with pottery, tableware, lamps-and magazines.

The name of the shop was Carnaby Street.

_Find a dead man, there's a good fella, put the touch on an old acquaintance, buy Kaitou some ink._

Was Kuwabara right? Was everything connected?

Someone must live above the shop.

His head tilted toward the window where the light burned, Hiei probed harder, sensing...

Yes. _Youki._ Even if this had no connection to Mr. Groovy, it bore investigation.

The door was locked. But there was another door in an alcove to the left. An old wooden door painted racing green.

He went in to find a tiny downstairs hall paved with octagonal black-and white tiles. A bank of flat metal mailboxes ranged along its left-hand wall.

Up two flights of narrow stairs dimly lit. Then right, into an equally dim hallway, with the sense of _youki_ stronger.

Light painting the floor in front of the farthest door. Ready for anything, Hiei raised a hand to knock.

The door opened before his fist met wood. A chill swept over him.

The man who answered was lean and spare, somewhat less than Kurama's height, older than the cherry-haired shopkeeper, probably in his 70s.

His pinkish complexion contrasted with hair that resembled straw-thatching, and he had a face lined with habitual, easy smiles. He was not smiling now, but his overall aspect made Hiei think of a youthful spirit, peering from an elderly facade.

His eyes, faded-cornflower blue, shielded behind thick glasses, regarded Hiei with bright curiosity. A white shirt and a brown vest, with a blue paisley scarf instead of a necktie, lent a decidedly bookish air.

_Kaitou Yuu in sixty years,_ thought Hiei, but this man was not Japanese. _I'd bet good money he's not American, either._

"I suppose this was inevitable." The man sighed. "And I could _feel_ you out there, stalking me."

"Part of my charm," said Hiei. "Plus, I can sense _youki._"

"Oh, good, you speak English." He grinned. His teeth were uneven, and yellowish-white.

"Mr. Groovy, I presume?"

"And a powerful _youki_ you have, too. Do come in. Beastly weather, this."

Hiei stepped into the apartment.

It was spacious by Tokyo standards, with the kitchenette opposite the door. A door to the left of the kitchenette was half-closed, probably a bath or a bedroom.

On the floor lay an Oriental rug that had seen better days. A comfortable-looking sofa, strewn with throw pillows, a wing chair facing the sofa. Next to that was a side table, where a reading lamp illuminated an open book and picked out the gleam of a gilt-framed photo. A stack of encyclopedias served as a makeshift coffee table. The walls were thick with books.

The apartment was not Japanese in character, but British, a refuge made for comfort, nostalgia, maybe even a hideaway.

To Hiei, it meant shelter from the rain.

"Only please don't call me that," continued Mr. Groovy, handing Hiei a towel.

"Don't know what to call you," said Hiei, blotting water from his hair. "Wakayama Banta? Jack Hughes?"

"None of the above, actually. My real name is Will Denman."

"Kind of explains why there was no obit for Hughes."

Denman's manner was gentle, quiet, courteous, the opposite of Mr. Groovy's. Taking Hiei's sodden raincoat, he placed it on a coat rack, then turned on a small electric heater, aiming it at the dripping garment. A black rubber mat under the coat rack protected the threadbare rug.

Since breakfast, Hiei had acted a dozen different roles. Why not just be himself? "I'm going to hazard a wild guess and say you didn't kill the original Mr. Groovy and take over his gig."

"Nor did I. In fact-" A shrill whistle made Hiei jump.

"Oh, that'll be the kettle. You'll have some tea of course? And cake? Weather's been a fright. Almost like home."

"I thought Japan was your home." Hiei perched on the sofa.

"Touche." Denman ambled into the kitchenette. "It is now."

There were too many cushions. As Hiei shifted one cushion, the cushion next to it moved, proving to be a copper-eyed calico cat. It regarded Hiei with supreme, yawning indifference, then curled back into pillow-shape.

"That's Buster," said Denman, setting up a tea tray.

"Buster's a boy's name. Virtually all calicoes are female."

"Oh, it suits her." Denman gave the cat a fond look.

Hiei studied him a moment. "You don't at all resemble-"

"The 'real' Mr. Groovy?" Denman winced. "But I do resemble the real me."

"No one's talented enough to make a tall elderly Englishman look like a sawed-off piece of Japanese mischief."

Denman brought the tray, and laid it on the side table with fine-drawn, delicate hands. But the nails were bitten down. Habit? A case of nerves?

He gave Hiei a mug of tea and a thick slice of fruitcake.

That was all right. Hiei was not in accord with the rest of the world, which seemed to regard fruitcake as toxic waste.

But as he handed over the refreshment, Denman peered at Hiei. "I seem to know you," he said.

Hiei tensed. There was no real reason to hide his identity, was there? Apart from being the secret operative.

"Ah, well, it'll come to me." Then, with his own tea and cake, Denman sat in the wing chair facing Hiei.

Still wary, but fortified by sticky fruitcake and strong black tea, Hiei spoke. "A lot of things don't add up. Do I play twenty questions or do you make it easy?"

Setting down his mug, Denman adjusted his glasses. "I suppose Mr. Groovy-that character-was an over-reaction to growing up poor and awkward in an East End pawn shop," he began.

Maybe he wanted to talk. Maybe everybody did.

Hiei settled in to listen. There were worse places to be, and N would get his justice when Hiei blew the whistle on Denman.

The odd thing was, Hiei liked Denman. And he never liked anyone on first sight.

For a moment or two Denman studied him. "One look at you tells me you won't know anything of this, but I was an outsider.

"When my schoolmates contented themselves playing rugby, I wanted to read. Being so shy and not-with-it, I struggled to get away from myself. And I succeeded beyond my wildest dreams."

Hiei gazed into the depths of his half-empty mug and thought: _At one time, I'd look at a guy like you and think he needed killing. Now-I've changed a little._ "Go on."

"One day I stumbled in on a drama club meeting, and the teacher cast me in a comedic play, just on a hunch. His hunch paid off. I could lose myself in a character. My troubles disappeared. _I_ disappeared."

_So we were in the same racket. And I should be able to tell him. But I have to keep at least this one mask on._

"Bit of paradise for a while, that drama club and what it led to." Beside Hiei, Buster opened a copper eye, flicked a white ear in Denman's direction, as if this was an old story to her. "Still can't reckon whether it was a blessing or a curse."

"That's how it started? With a school play?"

"Indeed. After I left school, I went to work in Mum and Dad's shop. At night, I played the club circuit, evolving my character, making an idiot of myself for pocket change."

"And someone 'discovered' you there?"

"Took long enough that I'd imagined 'the big break' would never come. But when I was nearly 40, a man from the BBC-the British Broadcasting Corporation-came looking for a new show that would be cheap to produce. I pitched him a man-in-the-street idea, with 'Mr Groovy' interviewing passers-by, and signed a contract under the name of Jack Hughes."

"I need a scorecard to keep track."

"Jack Hughes was a stage name. Didn't want people bothering my family, you see. Even back then, I must've realized where fame would lead."

"You got far enough that I couldn't figure it. I was searching for a man who never existed."

"And yet here you are." Denman's right hand sketched a languid gesture. "So I worked the Beeb a couple of years, made some decent money, but eventually they said I was too old."

"They canned you."

"As you so eloquently put it." Denman gave him a sheepish grin. "When the Beeb let me go, ITV, the rival network, took me on as the host of a variety show. I introduced acts, sang, danced, took pies to the face. After the second series got canceled-well. You know what they say: 'Wherever you go, there you are.'"

"So you just up and came to Japan. Makes perfect sense."

"Oh, I tried living a normal life. But the funny thing is, I couldn't _escape_ Mr. Groovy. Everywhere I went, people recognized me. Yes, I fled to Japan. Even I can't explain it."

_As if,_ Hiei thought, _something outside yourself was driving you. Something you didn't understand._

"Bit tricky," said Denman, "trying to keep different identities straight."

"Is it?" _When you know very well that it is._

"By then, partly due to the money Mr. Groovy made, my parents had been able to trade up the pawnshop for an antiques store, and there was a craze for all things Eastern. I suppose I was thinking to go and buy some stock for them."

Denman plucked a bit of fruitcake and popped it in his mouth. "And if I didn't fall for Japan. By and large, you are such a dear people. But one has to eat."

"So-"

"So one ends up doing the only thing one knows." This time, Denman's smile was tremulous.

Hiei realized that not only did Denman want to talk, that he had been dying to talk, to get it all off his chest. "That takes us almost to the present," Hiei said.

"Almost. Then... something happened." Denman passed a hand over his brow. "I found, as time went on, that my new show became less about making a fool of myself, and more about making fools of others. When I realized I was enjoying it, I knew this Mr. Groovy was changing me, and not in a good way.

"After that, I did everything I could to dump my ratings in the loo. I tried increasingly outrageous stunts, but the worse I got, the better they liked it."

"No accounting for taste."

"It's the world, you see. It's gone quite wrong."

"So it seems." _Too bad I can't tell him about the Shadow Wars._ "Then, no bad debts, no one after you?"

"No. I simply had to get away from Mr. Groovy once and for all. Didn't want to do the nervous breakdown bit. Then everyone would feel _sorry_ for me. So I began transferring money to another account, which set up the destitute thing quite well. Wasn't so easy to mime the drunkard, but I managed."

"All of this required two identities."

"Of course. Which is why I had to die."

"And yet here you are," said Hiei.

Denman gazed at the gilt-framed photo on the side table. "I expected to have more time," he murmured. "It's only been a month. What was it gave me away?"

"For one, I can sense _youki._"

"Yes, so you've said. Though mine's quite the joke, really. Mum's human, you know." The photo depicted an ordinary-looking English couple on an overstuffed sofa. "Dad-well, he can pass for human. Even as you can."

"Touche. Or something."

Denman lifted an inquiring eyebrow. "For another?"

"The name of your shop. Carnaby Street. Where you did your Mr. Groovy interviews."

"Oh, that."

_Still hasn't explained how an elderly Englishman turns into a rubber-faced youngish Japanese._ "They say," Hiei ventured, "that people who disappear never really want to disappear. But here's what I don't get. There was a body. A corpse."

"Well..." Denman's face flushed deeper pink with embarrassment. "It went like _this._"

And then, things got a little strange.

-30-

(To be continued: The killer revealed?)


	7. Meet The Killer

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Farewell, Mr. Groovy (C7: Meet The Killer )

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: Gen/Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: Hiei is treated to an unusual sight.

A/N: I appreciate your reviews and thank you for reading this tale!

Who will be charged with murder?

Farewell, Mr. Groovy (7: Meet the Killer)

by

Kenshin

The air flooded with an eerie tension. The sense of _youki_ in the room spiked.

Buster, the calico cat, previously in imitation of a sofa cushion, lifted her head.

_The killer knows about you by now._ Kuwabara had said so. Hiei's gut tightened. He gripped the edge of the sofa.

_I've been played for a fool, walked straight into a trap._

In his wing chair, Mr. Groovy shut his eyes, his face pale.

Hiei's mind raced, rummaging one possibility, kicking it aside, grabbing another. An accomplice behind that half-closed door. A set-up by N, wanting to rid the Agency of its stubborn, insubordinate _youkai_ operative.

He looked into his heart and knew he wasn't up for a fight, didn't want a fight, but would fight if he had to.

Denman wheezed. From the side of his neck, just above the scarf, formed a swelling, no larger than a hive.

The very pink of the swelling drained color from Denman's skin, leaving it frog-belly pale.

Because of Denman's wheezing, for a moment, Hiei thought he was having an allergic reaction. He almost relaxed.

But then Buster rose, stiff and wary, and Hiei went back on alert. This was no case of fruitcake hives.

Cats _knew_ things. Their sensory apparatus was different from either human or _youkai_.

Part of him wanted to bolt, but Hiei refused, casting down the urge with a sense of scorn. He could not complete his mission by running from it.

Instead, he leaned forward to study Denman. The swelling grew rapidly, to something more like the size of a tennis ball.

Under his scrutiny, the extrusion pulsed, as though it possessed its own bloodstream. Denman labored with hollow, ragged breaths that drowned the patter of rain.

Buster pinned back her ears and hissed.

Wondering if he had a fight on his hands after all, Hiei stared at the revolting lump, ready to take action.

The extrusion of flesh was now the size of a baseball. And its surface was no longer smooth.

It began to form features, as though an unseen sculptor was busy carving out a slice for a mouth here, pressing dabs of eyes there, pinching up a nose in between.

Buster's fur puffed. She spat. Her tail lashed.

Her agitation was contagious. That tiny head, pulsing with alien blood, was an obscenity. Irrational fear clawed at Hiei's belly. And if those sealed eyes should open, that slit of a mouth speak-

Hiei jumped to his feet. "Put it back!"

"Yes." Denman's soft voice had turned rasping and guttural. "I'd better. Takes quite a toll."

With an ugly squelching sound, the extrusion lost its half-formed features, melting into smoothness once again, subsiding into Denman's flesh.

It took a lot longer than Hiei liked.

Whatever this semi-formed obscenity had been, it was gone now, and Denman looked too weak to mount any sort of attack. He looked old, old and worn, the illusion of youthfulness gone.

And with that, a new worry surfaced. Denman was gasping like a fish on dry land. If this guy died on Hiei's watch, where he had not been dead before-

_And I've been slogging around in the rain, asking about Mr. Groovy, and that old lady in the shop practically told me to come here, and it will lead back to the Agency._

Alarmed, Hiei bent toward Denman, but Denman waved him away, rasping, "Just... need... rest."

The ragged voice suggested dehydration. Hiei went to the kitchenette and found a mug to dump tea into.

Denman gave a wavery grin. "Thanks. Just leave it on the side table till my hands stop shaking."

Buster's fur had smoothed down. As though nothing out of the ordinary had taken place, she leapt lightly from the sofa onto Denman's lap, then commenced purring and kneading.

Would Denman be all right?

Loner that he was, capable though he was, Hiei had Kaitou, Kurama, Urameshi, even Kuwabara, and they all had his back.

And he had Shayla Kidd.

As though reading his thoughts, Denman said, "I'll be fine in a few. Having Buster here with me helps."

Hiei's own throat was dry. He had been too keyed up, expecting an attack when none had ever been intended. But N would not be interested in speculations, or half a story. He had to press on. "The body. That's how was it done?"

Denman nodded. "Once these things are fully extruded, there's only a tiny band of flesh connecting it. Just break the connection, and there's your 'evidence.' It's not really alive, you know. Lacks a soul. Dad had the gift, you see, used to entertain us at family gatherings. Close family gatherings, I should add. Sort of a puppet show. Drove Mum absolutely crackers. Dad passed the rather dubious gift on to me."

_This'll make N's day._ "Simple."

"Simple, but hardly easy. Quite the strain, rather." At last Denman reached for the tea and took a sip. His hands still shook, and he put it down again.

"Maybe I should add a shot of booze."

"On the counter there."

Hiei found a half-full bottle of rye, and brought it over. He could do with a shot himself, but refrained.

_Kuwabara was right. Everything's connected. This guy's been running around to get away from himself. And as for me..._

As Denman drank, color stole back into his cheeks.

"So this is your original face," Hiei said at length.

"As you see it." Denman's voice was regaining steadiness, and he tossed a rueful glance at Hiei.

"Pretty far from your family," Hiei said. "From your homeland. And the friends you made as Mr. Groovy-"

"-weren't real friends. Just acquaintances."

"But no one here knows. You're on your own."

"I expect I'll make some new friends in time. Mrs. Dilber who runs The French Connexion seems genial enough. Meanwhile, I'm enjoying the peace and quiet."

_Enjoy it while it lasts,_ Hiei thought, keeping an eye on the tired old man.

_N was right, too. Someone really did 'kill' Mr. Groovy. But if you 'kill' yourself, and survive, what are the charges? Who's guilty, and of what?_

Hiei needed to make sure of his facts. "You got sick of Mr. Groovy," he prompted. "Again."

"Quite. As wiser men have said, you never really get away from yourself. I should have paid heed."

"Don't tell me. Let me guess."

"Yes. I reshaped myself altogether. Became a Japanese, to all appearances. I'd show you, but that extrusion alone took a lot out of me."

"Don't bother," Hiei assured him hastily. "You became Wakayama Banta, maintained that form, twenty-four-seven?"

"Oh, impossible. Talk about a toll on one's energy! Whenever I was alone, I turned back into myself again."

"Must have been a strain."

"Even so," Denman continued. "Maybe I should have chosen a different name for the character."

Hiei glanced out the front window. Tears of rain sobbed away the night. "Maybe you didn't want to."

"Well, mate, there's one for the philosophers."

"And the name for your shop?"

"Ah, yes. Carnaby Street...the glory days. Maybe some day I can look back on it all with some sort of objectivity."

"You faked the destitute part. The money you made as Mr. Groovy went into Carnaby Street."

"Bit by bit," Denman confirmed.

"So this was all planned out."

"Funny, isn't it? Ending up right back where I'd started? Mum and Dad's pawnshop paved the way. Because I do know how the business works, and I rather enjoy it. I'm actually quite happy in this new life. Maybe one has to grow old enough to realize what one has."

"Aren't you kind of living in the past?"

"I suppose it looks like that in a sense." Denman glanced around the book-laden room. "Say rather that I'm in the process of discovering my own future."

Buster gave a tremendous yawn, then curled up to sleep. Denman kept his hands on her, as if drawing strength from her steady breathing.

Hiei thought, _That voice in my head-_

_Here's a guy, running from his own life. Is that really what I want? Turn my back on Shayla Kidd? Michael, Cecilia? _

"So you came to Japan to get away from your character, and ended up playing him all over again. But this time you decided to 'do away with yourself.'" Denman was no kid, but it bore asking. "Your parents still living?"

Denman nodded. "Dad is. You know us _youkai._"

"And it didn't bother you that he might worry? Or grieve over your 'death?'"

"Mum and Dad knew what I was about all along. I always sent notes, complete with 'payoffs' to buy their silence." Denman's wink took the sting from the word 'payoff,' and made it clear that he meant something quite different. He drank a little more tea. "Dad understood what I'd been through back in London, and didn't try to talk me out of it."

_You cherished one another,_ Hiei realized. _Even at such a great distance. You and your family. And my family-_

Hiei had been born to the all-female Koorime, but they were not his family, and their floating iceberg in the sky, Hyouga, was not his homeland. They had never wanted Hiei. It was they who had decreed he must die at birth. Even though Rui, his mother, had pleaded for his life, her lone voice could not drown out those of Hyouga's isolationists.

_When you start life getting flung down to certain death, there's nowhere to go but up._

"Dangerous," Hiei said. "Leaving the body like that, even with the bottle of pills by your side and your suicide note. If there had been an autopsy, what would it have revealed?"

"An un-differentiated lump of flesh. Oh, I know I had painted myself into a corner. But it seemed worth the risk."

"And since there was no evidence of foul play, no one called for an investigation. Got it."

Denman's look held admiration. "You're quite good at this, you know. But now I do recall where I've seen you before."

_Ah, nuts. Cover's blown._ Hiei wondered what he would tell N about _that,_ and what N would do in retaliation. Given his knowledge of classified material, Hiei might end up on an island as remote as Hyouga, with as little chance of escape.

"You were standing in front of me one day," Denman continued, "on line at the Silver Moon cafe, about two months ago. As if you suspected, even then."

Hiei blew out a long, long breath.

"And I really did think I would have more time." Denman took a final sip of tea. "I was just beginning to enjoy myself. No, more than that. To relax. To actually believe I'd got away with it. Ah, well. I suppose, now you've found me, it's all got to come to an end."

As if on cue, Buster yawned, hopped off Denman's lap, and waddled into the kitchen in search of food.

Rising, Denman held out his hands to Hiei, as though ready to receive handcuffs.

"That's not quite how it works," Hiei said.

"You mean-" Denman's eyes widened. "You're not putting the touch on me?"

The touch? It took him by surprise. Denman, all this time, thinking Hiei was a blackmailer?

"HELL no." Hiei rose. His raincoat hadn't quite dried, but that hardly mattered. He found the killer. And was going home.

A look of astonishment passed over Denman's face. "Then-you're not after money?"

"Double hell no." Hiei shouldered into the damp raincoat and wriggled into his sodden shoes.

Denman looked like a man whose death sentence has been suddenly, inexplicably, commuted. Hiei felt an odd little flutter somewhere in the middle of his chest.

Still a little unsteady, but his face pink with delight, Denman saw him to the door. "Where are you headed then?"

Hiei shut his eyes a moment. "Where the heart is."

(To Be Concluded: What will happen to Denman?)

-30-


	8. End of the Line

Please read Disclaimer in Chapter One.

Title: Farewell, Mr. Groovy (C8: End of the Line)

Author: JaganshiKenshin

Genre: Gen/Mystery

Rating: K+/PG-13 (for anime-style fight scenes/language)

Summary: What will become of Mr. Groovy?

A/N: The events in _Idiot Beloved_ take place shortly after the Dark Tournament; _Firebird Sweet_ directly follows that timeline. In order for certain character development to make sense, you might read those fics in order. For reference, I use a combination of the American YYH manga and the subtitled anime. I appreciate your reviews and thank you for reading this tale!

If the shoe doesn't fit-

Farewell, Mr. Groovy (8: End of the Line)

by

Kenshin

It was still raining the next morning when Hiei drove to N's office.

If he had expected the cloudburst to cease simply because he had found Mr. Groovy in a single day, he was mistaken.

The secretary took in his sodden appearance, gave him a sympathetic glance, then ushered him in.

Today, N wore a dove-gray suit, a solid blue tie, and an expression of such impassivity that Hiei could not read his mood at all, whether eager or weary or impatient. He sat not at his vast desk, but on a low-backed chair across from Hiei, a coffee table between them as if for protection.

N was still pretty much of an enigma.

He inclined his head, and Hiei noticed a tray laden with mugs of steaming tea, waiting on the coffee table.

The sight and scent of tea created a vivid recollection of Hiei's visit with Denman.

Beyond the initial greetings, no one had spoken. Now Hiei broke the silence. "Your hunch-"

N's eyes widened. "You found Mr. Groovy's killer?"

Words would not come easily. Reaching into his jacket, Hiei retrieved the envelope of cash. He tossed it on the coffee table. "Here's the rest of your money. I incurred some expenses. Food, gasoline, bribes."

"Naturally." N made no move to pick up the envelope. "But the killer?"

Hiei hesitated, poised on the horns of a dilemma, for he refused to lie his way out of this.

No. Not horns, but more like a suspension bridge that teetered before him, swaying in high winds, a roaring stream slashed by cutting rocks below, the ropes already frayed and ready to give. A bridge made of ideas and words.

A man's life at stake, and it was not Hiei's. One false step meant doom.

Though at one time, Hiei would have cheerfully laid it on with a trowel, even to someone who had paid for his time and talents, he was no longer that same man.

With all the poise he could muster, Hiei took the first step onto the swaying, perilous bridge. "There wasn't a killer."

After a startled glance at the envelope, N gazed at Hiei, placid once more. "It's not like you to speak in riddles."

Hiei did not reply. He looked past the empty desk and stared at the gray, dreary window.

He had arrived at the office intending to tell N all he had learned about Mr. Groovy.

Will Denman. A gentle old man whom Hiei liked, forcing himself into a shoe that had never really fit, longing to return to his true self. And only Hiei knew the story.

A man who had fled his homeland for the comfort of an alien world. A man who had to hide his true identity.

Damn if Kuwabara wasn't right: Everything's connected.

Maybe Denman had been driven a little off his rails by the Mr. Groovy character. Maybe he hadn't selected the best method to bow out of that role. But for whatever reason, Hiei was unwilling to expose him now.

Aware of N's gaze, Hiei rose and walked to the window. Down below, pedestrians silvered with rain slogged to work or shopping or whatever people did on a dull October morning.

"I think," Hiei began, tapdancing the bridge of words, "you can set your mind at ease. That's all I'm at liberty to say."

He heard N's voice. "I paid for your time, not a particular outcome-but I did also pay for information."

Hiei nodded. N the enigma. Was he the sort of man who would demand to know full details, even when it would only end up hurting Denman? A man he had admired?

Unless Hiei could convince him otherwise.

_Halfway across that swaying bridge. Try again._

N was right. Hiei didn't speak in riddles.

This wasn't his usual means of communication, not his own direct, blunt style. He had to convince N to drop the matter, without revealing either too much or too little, and it wasn't comfortable, and didn't sit easy. Still, in spite of the high winds, fraying ropes, and perils below, Hiei's speed and balance had always been superb.

"Suppose," Hiei continued, tracking a parade of dots that he knew to be umbrellas, "hypothetically speaking, that no crime of murder had taken place."

"Hypothetically speaking?" echoed N. "But not suicide. Never that."

"And suppose an operative assigned to the case decided there are sufficient reasons to leave it at that."

N chuckled. "Maybe I'll keep the money after all."

"It was never mine to begin with." Hiei turned back to N. He hadn't touched the envelope.

N would have the last word on this. Hard as it was to bear, the matter was out of Hiei's hands. If he had played it wrong, the only thing he could do was warn Denman the jig was up.

Just when Denman had thought he was safe.

Hiei went to sit opposite N. "Suppose," he continued, finding it easier to look at the envelope than N, "that no one had run out on a bad debt. And just suppose the assigned operative deemed this person to be someone who'd done nothing to merit Agency interest." He looked up at last. "If you trusted the operative's judgment, would that be adequate reason to leave the alleged target in peace?"

N was quiet, staring at the envelope. Perhaps he was trying to work out what Hiei had said. Perhaps he would press a button under his desk and Hiei would wake up on that remote island.

The sky was the depressive color of soiled dishwater. It could rain forever, for all Hiei cared. Rain was just another mask the world wore.

Hiei was not about to turn Mr. Groovy over to any authorities. He began to formulate options.

N looked up at last. "It was never Agency business to begin with," he said, pushing the envelope across to Hiei.

Hiei sat there pretending to be a statue.

"Now for pity's sake, pick up your pay and have some tea. Mrs. N would chide me for kicking you back out in the rain."

Hiei accepted both the envelope and the tea.

This, he discovered, was roasted-rice green tea, pale jade in color, elegant, with a pleasant aroma of grain and flowers. A world removed from Denman's bitter black brew.

As for Mr. Groovy, he had just received an anonymous gift: the breathing space to re-aquaint himself with Will Denman.

By the time Hiei left, the sun was shining again.

-30-

(Next up: Maya's Tale)


End file.
